


He's Like Glass

by megazorzz



Series: All the Things You Are [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Eventual Shmoop, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-war flashback, references to suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2597174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megazorzz/pseuds/megazorzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You haven't slept for three days. </p><p>You're like glass, one moment so clear and lucid, and the next shattered and smeared with blood.</p><p>"Make me feel good," you whisper into Steve's ear. "I just want to feel good again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Like Glass

 

It’s snowing. You’re watching it fall behind the glass and dissolve into the fallen leaves. It’s November and you think you need another blanket. Sleep had been coming hard to you for the past few days. You eventually stopped trying after last night, when surging anxiety sent tremors through your hands. The blanket’s weight is suffocating.

It has been a quiet day, save for one incident. From time to time, you hear Steve and see his white socks peaking through the crack beneath the door. He’s there again now, quietly listening and breaking your heart. The feet retreat and resume their pacing. You beat yourself up, unable to shake the gray clouds hanging over your head. You curl up in the sheets.

He must have swept up all the broken glass in the living room by now. He’s diligent. Even when everything comes crashing down, when you make civilian life difficult for him, Steve is diligent. You wish you could say the same, but instead you’re a burden. You’re paralyzed.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a tiny shining speck of glass, but you don’t rise to pick it up. You instead linger on it, wondering how it will feel when it inevitably graces your foot in the dark. You will feel it penetrate your skin, but you won’t wince or sneer or shout, only accept its cut. You crave punishment. Some things you still can’t shake loose.

You toss in bed, pulling the covers up near your jaw, which is thick with stubble. A cup of tea rests on the dresser atop a wooden coaster. It was there when you woke up, softly steaming. You could not bear to touch it. Kindness is not something you take lightly—it’s a gift hard earned and right now you don’t think you’ve earned it.

Something had rattled you to the bone on the last operation, but you can’t pinpoint the cause. A face swims to view in your memories, brown eyes with fear potent enough to pierce the veil of forget. They belonged to a mother, yes, someone begging you for her life. Steve said that it wasn’t you who pulled the trigger, but the Soldier, long, long ago. You retreated from Steve’s touch then; you hate that this conversation still needs to happen, that you cannot free yourself from this burden and regret. Your body is silent acceptance, a reaction trained into the fiber of your muscles and the crevices of your brain.

You look at your right hand in the dying afternoon light. You see the callous on your index finger and guilt floods your system. Without warning, your left arm shoots out, pitching the tea mug to the floor, sending shards of glass flying to the corners of the room. Tea wets the rug, streaking like a bloodstain.

A moment later, Steve is at the bedroom door, blue eyes blown wide. He rushes over, not caring about the glass scattered left and right. He pulls you into him, hands stroking your back, hand clasped around your trembling fist. He’s whispering into your ear, but you don’t understand his words. Instead, you concentrate on the sound of his voice. His baritone sends shivers down your right side and you feel the guilt subsiding like a stubborn ember. Your eyes travel to his feet. Red patches slowly expand over white cotton. You squint your eyes shut.

 

\+ + +

 

The bedroom rug is coiled in the corner, angry red splotches visible through the fibers. Steve has his tennis shoes on and you’re watching him from the couch. He moves across the floor, moving furniture and shoving the broom into the corners, getting every last shard. He had asked you if you wanted to keep the door open, just so he could see you, and slowly you nodded, still trembling. The scrape of the furniture against the hardwood floor is somehow soothing—a strange, anonymous sound, like a yawn or the hum of the radiator.

The broken glass rattles in the trash bin as he moves. Steve makes sure to brush against it when he turns a corner, to remind you that he is just on the other side of the wall. Warmth blooms in your chest, but something else rises up to, but you can’t place it. The snow has ceased, but the clouds remain.

You know you’re not to blame—that your body is still learning to exist on its own, without orders and a commanding grip—but knowing is different from believing. You’ve told Steve, over and over again, that you know this. He believes you, but you don’t offer yourself the same trust. You run a hand through your hair and curl up on the couch, watching Steve shuffle back and forth, removing the last shards of glass.

Steve meets your gaze. “All done, buddy.” He tosses a glance at the bed. “Do you wanna help me rearrange the furniture?” His invitation is soft. You nod and rise to your feet, letting the blanket fall to the couch. The room is in disarray. He gently places a palm in yours and you hold tight. “What do you think?”

You say that the bed should go in the far corner, like how it was when you first moved in together. The light doesn’t get in your eyes that way, forcing you to rely on scent and touch and smell in your early mornings, as you grope around and feel his body next to yours. You and Steve lift the frame and place it in the corner. With one arm, you lift the mattress and throw it on top. The dresser and desk follow. Steve lets you have the final say.

Thinking about the shapes of the furniture somehow soothes you—how they fit together, how you walk between them, how all their corners come together to form a whole. Steve brews another pot. You return to the couch, look out the window and watch the orange fade into purple and the purple fade into black.

Steve returns with the mugs and he collapses on the couch next to you. He kicks off his shoes and hands you a mug. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I can’t keep doing this.”

“Bucky,” Steve sighs. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know.”

Steve shifts. His hand rests on your thigh. “Do you?”

You take a drink and meet his gaze, though you aren’t able to keep it for long. “I do.” Your eyes dart to his feet. “But, I hurt you.”

Steve shakes his head. “You didn’t. I just had an accident is all. Besides, we’ve been through far worse, buddy.” He moves in closer on the couch and swings his right leg over his knee. He removes his sock and his feet are speckled with tiny pink marks, with no sign of blood. “See? No harm done.”

You lean into him. “It can still hurt, even though it’s healed.”

Steve hushes you and you fall quiet. He pulls you in, rubbing your shoulder. You listen to him breathe in soft quiet. Soon the world goes dark and you fall into a brief sleep. When you wake up, it is still dark outside, but you already feel the clouds begin to part above you. Steve is still next to you on the couch, reading in the low light. “Hey buddy.”

“Hey,” you whisper, throat croaky.

“Feeling better?”

"A bit, yeah.”

Steve plants a kiss on your temple. “I’m glad.” He clears the empty mugs. You watch him walk to the kitchen, almost unable to bear the frank kindness of his care. Sometimes accepting it comes easy. You blush and grin and feel like the luckiest guy in the whole world, but other times—like this past week—you push him away, wishing that kindness to fall on anyone else besides you.

He returns with a glass of water and a lemon wedge. “You used to make me tea all the time. Back then,” Steve says.

Steve squeezes the lemon into the glass. The citrus jogs an image into view. You made him tea because it was cheaper than medicine. You put in a slice of lemon, set it on its own cracked saucer next to a tiny vase with a paper flower and strolled into the bedroom, placing it on the side table, watching Steve’s mouth curl into a soggy smile.

“I never said thank you,” you blurt out.

Steve smiles. “For what?”

"The tea—it’s nice. Helped, ” you hold out your arm and circle a finger around your head, “with all of this.”

Steve tousles your hair. “I’m returning the favor.” You see it then, clarity return to his eyes, a shade lifted from his face. He sees something you don’t, a revival. You plant a kiss on his cheek, refusing to let the guilt creep in. You force yourself to accept it and swing your arms around his shoulders and entangle your limbs in his. You feel warm all over.

Your stubble scrapes against Steve’s as you mouth moves toward his ear. “Make me feel good. I just want to feel good,” you whisper. Steve shifts, suddenly his face is uncertain, mouth skewing to a small dot. He looks you up and down and doesn’t move.

“I don’t know, I think you should get some more rest.”

“No,” you say, “Not rough this time...How we used to before.”

“Before?” Steve turns to you. “You mean…?”

“Like how I used to treat you. Back at our old place,” you say, voice on the edge of pleading. “I just need…I need…”

Steve pauses for too long. You shake your head and stand up—ready to retreat to the bedroom, away from your naïve proposal—but Steve takes your hand. He squeezes it. You turn back and he rises slowly. He presses his lips against your jaw and he gently leads you to the bed.

He turns on the small corner lamp and the bedroom is rosy and warm. He tugs at the hem of your t-shirt and pulls it over your head. He lays another kiss at your collarbone, no teeth, no biting, just his moist lips against your skin. He folds the shirt and places it on the dresser.

You run your hands over his chest and he encircles you. You feel his breath against your shoulder, then your jaw and then his lips slowly rise to meet yours, kneading softly. There’s no urgency, no animal instinct to claim and mark. His eyelids are heavy, but you still feel him watching you, gauging your reaction. You moan softly and his eyes close.

You twist around and you lay him down on the bed. His face is flushed and his lips swollen and pink. You crawl on the bed over him. The small plastic buttons of his cardigan seem so far away, but you manage to ease them through their holes one at a time. He sits up as you slide it off of his shoulders. You drape the cardigan over your shirt.

Steve’s undershirt is translucent in the light. You see the peaks of his nipples, how it clings to his chest and shoulders. Seeing the fabric taut over his shoulders reminds you of how little he looked before, how the shirt hung from his frame, loose and flowing. You were never able to find shirts small enough for him then. He never wanted to wear a boy’s size and you never suggested it. You had wanted to grant him that much dignity. The shirts you ended up purchasing would hang loosely over his shoulders and he would softly pleat it in the back as he pulled on his trousers.

Your hands are at his waist, fingers rimming beneath the band. He eyes you blissfully. You roll up the hem and his shirt travels slowly up his torso, the shadows of his muscles cast in red hues. On your way up you graze his nipples and squeeze them. He sighs and throws back his head. You feel his lungs expand slowly beneath your touch.

His shirt lies abandoned in the corner and you begin to count your blessings. You leave a kiss for every one you can conjure up. On his Adam’s apple is when he first said hi, on his collarbone when he told you his name. Near his heart is when he gave you his hand, and near his bellybutton is when he made you tea. You shut your eyes, forcing back the tears, unwilling to let them fall. The brown eyes float into view again but you push them back. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Steve stops breathing. He takes your face in his hands. His thumbs run over your cheeks. “It’s okay, Bucky. It’s okay.” You feel the tears run down your cheeks as you rush to meet him on the bed.

You kiss him and hold him tight. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Forgive me,” you cry into Steve’s mouth. Steve sits up and you dissolve. He rocks back and forth on the bed, clutching you close to his chest. He rocks with you, back and forth. After a few minutes, you sit up and wipe your eyes and you lean into him, eyes fixed on the rug in the corner. “Do you want to go to sleep?” Steve asks.

You think for a moment. The day had seemed to pass by so slowly while you sat in the dark and so quickly while Steve was near. You resent the passage of time, the ephemerality of it all. Your eyes travel to the corners of the bedroom, the bloodstained socks and the mug. You bury your face in his chest and shake your head, clinging onto him with both hands.

“No. We need this.”

Steve resettles. Something shifts—a wave of consideration. Suddenly, he’s straddling you. His blonde hair hangs in his face and he pins your hands above your head on the mattress.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says, corner of his mouth perking up. “Like you used to take care of me.” His fingers edge around your waistband, teasing the skin beneath. Your head falls to the side and you close your eyes, focusing on his touch. His fingers untie the knot near the front and he pulls your sweatpants loose. You instinctively lift your hips and cool air meets you.

Steve chuckles under his breath. “No boxers, eh?” You grin and shake your head. “Good,” Steve says. You hear the drawer slide open. Steve fumbles around, feeling around for the lube. The cap pops open and suddenly the slick is gliding up and down your cock.

Steve gasps as you buck into his hand. “That’s right. Nice and gentle. Just like old times.” His hand slides up and down on your cock and you squirm beneath him. You buck your hips but Steve keeps you down, sharp jolts of pleasure pulsing through you. “You’re safe, you’re safe and you’re with me. That’s right.” He dips down and takes you in his mouth. His tongue swirls around the head and you clutch the sheets.

Suddenly, the weight is gone. Steve is at the edge of the bed. You sit up and fumble with the button of his jeans. “Oh, Buck.” You slide his boxers down and his cock bobs up and down. He steps out of the puddle of cloth and he looms over you. His hand caresses the back of your head and your mouth unhinges. You take him all in. Steve moans and you moan in kind. You feel him twitch under your tongue. You pull back and breathe deep. Even after all this time, he smells the same.

His fingers creep up your chest and he pushes you back. He throws a leg up on the bed and he pours more lube into his hand. He readies himself in front of you, his fingers moving in and out, his mouth hanging open. He throws back his head and groans and it almost sends you over the edge.

“Gonna take care of you,” Steve groans. You sit up and lean against the adjacent wall. His other leg rises and he’s straddling you again. His hand reaches down to line up your cock and slowly he sinks down. You enter him, the cool suddenly enveloped in warmth. He keeps his balance only barely as your cock plunged in and out. Your mouth is on his collarbone again, sucking and licking.

Each run over his prostate is slow and agonizing. His breath hitches as your head breaches him and it’s hot as you withdraw. His arms wrap around you. You fall over him and suddenly Steve is on his back, his head near the foot of the bed. His legs wrap around your hips. “You’re so good to me, Steve. So good,” you gasp. He whimpers beneath you. They set your mind on fire.

Suddenly he is small beneath you. His face is twisted and lost in pleasure, his eyelashes smashed tight together. You hold him by the ankles. The bed creaks and rocks beneath your thrusts. Steve bites his fist to keep his noises between you and him. The walls are paper-thin and the apartment cold, but you made your own heat back then. It was all you needed. “Oh, oh, go slow, slow,” he whispers. You oblige and settle into the steady, determined pace. His mouth opens and he stifles another cry. He’s like glass or fine China, so fair and beautiful—easily shattered. You understand that you are breakable too.

Now your bed is bigger and Steve is beneath you, arms and chest massive, hands massive, yet gentle. The walls don’t encroach and the radiator diligently warms the apartment, and you have access to some of the best medical care in the world, but some things don’t change. Steve brings his fist to his mouth, which slowly unhinges at the urging of your thrusts. He moans into it and you growl low in return. His eyes are on you, never breaking your gaze.

Slowly you pick up the pace. Steve’s fist slams into the covers. You feel that precious spot over and over. You tuck your hair behind your ears and get to work. You lie on top of him as you plunder him. Steve’s breath hitches and he writhes beneath you. He starts to whimper and you kiss him. Each thrust brings him closer to unraveling. “Bucky,” he groans and he is undone, spurting between your stomachs.

You keep up the pace, Steve limp and pliable. Sweat runs down the strands of hair behind your ears and over your forehead. You push a thumb into his mouth. He sucks on it and soon you follow him into bliss. You pull out and add to Steve’s mess. You don’t care about it and instead fall into him. Slowly he pushes you up, eyes running up and down your frame, hints of disbelief darting through them. You sag and collapse next to him.

You both lie there, breathless and spent. Your eyes are closed but you feel Steve’s gaze on your skin like a caress. You’re tired, all the waking hours having at last caught up with you. You sigh and roll into him.

“Was it good?” Steve asks.

You nod.

“I know you usually like it rougher than that.”

You nod and mumble wordlessly.

“You didn’t mind me treating you like that?” Steve asks.

“Steve,” you groan, “Don’t.”

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.” Steve leans on one elbow. “I know you don’t like being coddled, but I like coddling you—treating you like you’re something delicate.”

You feel his fingers clear the hair from your eyes and you open up. “I guess it’s not so bad. Makes me feel like I’m something special, I guess.” You hold out your left arm. “Kinda silly, seeing as part of me is literally indestructible.”

“You are special, Buck.” Steve says. He leans over and kisses your forehead. “Don’t say you aren’t.”

You feel tears bidding for attention, but you wipe them away. “You’re always overthinking everything,” you mumble. You bury yourself in the covers. “But, I guess one of us has to.”

Steve joins you below the sheets. He wraps an arm around your shoulders. “I’ll stop, I promise.” Silence falls over the two of you again, comfortable quiet.

“Goodnight, Bucky. I love you.”

“You too, Steve. You too.”

Eventually Steve’s breathing settles into a delicate rhythm. Dulcet blues have started filtering into the sky. Morning has come and you are at last ready to drift away. You press your lips onto his and let sleep drift over you.

 

 


End file.
